


Baking Memories

by loquaciouslass



Category: The Legend of Zelda & Related Fandoms, The Legend of Zelda: Breath of the Wild
Genre: Aftermath of trauma, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Breath of the Wild Spoilers, Comfort Food, Food, Gen, Graphic Depictions of Illness, Heart-to-Heart, Mute Link, Non-Graphic Violence, Panic Attacks, Regret
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-09
Updated: 2017-10-09
Packaged: 2019-01-15 08:50:11
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,080
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12317712
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/loquaciouslass/pseuds/loquaciouslass
Summary: Sun-drenched fields, marred by ruins. Soft voices from years long gone. And Link doesn’t remember any of them.OR: An AU where Link doesn’t regain his memories so cleanly, and the Shrine of Resurrection can only do so much.





	Baking Memories

**Author's Note:**

> NOTE: If you're bothered by descriptions of panic attacks, fainting or particular forms of heart disease, this might not be the story for you. It's not the only thing the story dwells on, and this first chapter is a bit heavier I'd say, but it's going to be through the whole story.

 

The Great Plateau used to be all of Hyrule, and Rhoam thinks it some sort of cruel irony that, for him, it may as well  _ still _ be all of Hyrule. The plateau stretches for hundreds of miles; mountains that graze the sun-dappled clouds and forests thick enough to block out a downpour. It’s a place almost made of peace, ever-green and calm, even with the bokoblins running around. A dream, for anyone down below. The ones who have to choke down fear to make a living.

After one-hundred years, the Great Plateau is too small. All Rhoam can do is watch the shrine, watch the beast, and wait. 

 

It’s a cool morning, slightly hazy, when the shrine stirs. Rhoam blinks the orange of the fire from his eyes, half-crawling up the hill to see a face that forces a thousand emotions to catch in his throat. Scratched with lines, some faded, some still puckered and pale pink; bony fingers and toes with elbows sharp as a knife- but the face is something. He’s thin, his cheeks are flushed red, but his eyes...blue as the endless sky, and looking out to the Great Plateau like it’s a blessing from the Goddesses.

Rhoam pulls his hood down before Link sees his face. It’s been a hundred years. Hyrule can wait another week for their once-dead saviour to find his feet. 

 

The stumbling is normal, at first. Link hasn’t had to use...well, anything, for a long time. Last Rhoam knew of Link’s body, it was rather more broken than not- bones, torn muscles, flesh burnt away to leave the resulting body like an anatomical diagram once Doctor Purah cleaned it up. 

Link jogs through the plateau, and he stumbles. He jogs over the ruins, and he stumbles. 

He stumbles into a camp full of bokoblins, and he doesn’t get up. 

The feeling that  _ something _ , something Rhoam doesn’t understand, is  _ wrong _ wells up like a geyser in his belly, and before he can remember anything about keeping a fragile mind safe, he rushes in. 

 

It’s night, Link is asleep, and Rhoam is watching the rise and fall of his chest by the fireside. He should be roaming, now- roaming to find spirit orbs and to activate the towers. He should be staring at Goddess Hylia, mouth pressed into a thin line because he doesn’t remember who she is, only that she’s offering some help. Link should be full of vigour and wonder, rediscovering the world at his own pace.

But he’s not. He’s shaky and though his eyes are endless, it’s the endlessness like the drop from the plateau to down below. Rhoam is like the people that live outside; fear in his throat, never  _ knowing _ enough to step forwards with confidence- every ounce of information is in the Sheikah Slate, or it’s with Purah or Impa, or worse…

Rhoam swallows and looks towards the castle. He can see it, in the swirling mist- the bright, yellow eyes, boring deep into his soul and carving out a space for anxiety and restlessness and stress. It drums out a constant beat in his heart and in his head. Something is  _ wrong _ ; wrong with Link, wrong with Hyrule, and wrong with him. 

Recipes should help- spicy delights or warming fish stews- something to keep the chill away. But as he goes to write them, the words fall out of his head, like ink diluting in water. Like the ink on the page, ruined by hot drops running down his face. 

Rhoam dispels all thoughts of dignity and covers his eyes, hiccoughing out sobs.

And all the while, Link is still. 

 

The Old Man is still asleep when a cold breeze shoves Link out of bed. He’s slumped against his desk, face half on the ruined diary, and there’s ink rubbing against his beard. His eyes are puffy, too. 

Bad night, Link guesses. Really bad, considering that the recipe the Old Man fell asleep on looks like a pretty simple meal, and no one put out the fire last night- cooking accident, maybe? It’s not really any of Link’s business, especially considering the Old Man has a habit of being cryptic and ominous, but...well, he’s the only person that’s tried to talk to him, so far. It must be lonely. 

And he’d given Link those baked apples, the ones that were sweet and soft like sunshine brushing on his skin after one of those strange spells- dizziness, extremely tired, heart pounding out a beat that was way out of time- so the Old Man can’t be that bad. 

Link peers at the book, not that he hasn’t already poked through it. It’s a page about something spicy- a fried dish, crisp and sweet with hot peppers and perhaps slices of pigeon or boar. Then, yes, the tail end of a fish, mixed up with some mushrooms, and perhaps a sprinkling of herb. Link nods to himself, gives the old man a gentle pat on the back, and walks into the breeze. Fresh, today. Delighted. He’s heard the Old Man talk about the temple and people worshipping, so this must be the kind of weather that people would thank with apples or mushrooms. 

But his stomach is rumbling, and surely the Old Man could do with a good meal, so he just settles with a wave to the winds. 

In return, it ruffles his hair and pushes him to some rich, red peppers. 

 

Link doesn’t remember anything about himself. 

He doesn’t know if the dizzy spells are normal, nor does he know if everyone comes with the patchwork of marks on their flesh that become stiff in the snowy mountains. He’s certain the Old Man doesn’t shake like he does, but he’s still not sure  _ why _ . 

The only thing Link does remember is food. Or rather, Link doesn’t remember food in the sense that he knows recipes, like the Old Man, but food brings out something in him that sunshine and spells don’t. Sunshine is nice, and the spells are worrying, but  _ food _ ; sweet and crisp apples with a crunch like feet on fresh snow; the blend between rich, juicy boar; cooked rare and honey that felt like pure warmth on his tongue; mushrooms with smooth textures, flavoured with herbs and spices until every bite of a skewer was an explosion of pure  _ sensations _ , tingling on his tongue, and filling Link with a kind of deep, unyielding happiness that he’s  _ certain _ he must’ve felt before. 

So he doesn’t remember anything, formally, but he’s found a pretty good nose for ingredients and an unusual amount of culinary luck. 

It’s useful, even without the breeze, and he doesn’t need steady fingers to gather fish or vegetables. Meat, on the other hand…

Well, it’s still early in the morning, but trembling arms and a brain that occasionally just...gives out aren’t the best for hunting. The pigeons fly away and he’s been knocked down by a boar twice now. He hopes the Old Man is still asleep as he rubs dirt off his face and takes a moment to settle his heart under a tree. It’s not his imagination, he’s sure- even when his heart is thudding reasonably, it’s still skipping along. The beat to a waltz, inside his chest, when the drums are loud. 

Link breathes, deep, aware of the world. He can hear birds. There’s definitely a boar around, too, snuffling for mushrooms. And...yes, the squawks, little tapping. Bokoblins. They’re pretty light footed for their size, but Link’s been trying to avoid them. Something about those eyes...they just make his heart twitch in strange ways, like a stream blocked by rockfalls. 

But they have meat, and Link’s hands are quaking too much to get it himself. He could fight them, he thinks- he has weapons on him, and they rest easily in his grip (until his limbs turn tight, of course), and there’s only about three of them. One of them’s even on the ground, clutching at a cut on it’s face. It’s shiny and whenever something touches it, the bokoblin whines. 

Link frowns. The Old Man...he’d written a few things about treating injuries, right? It was a bit fuzzy but Link was sure- honey, honey helped. Honey and...cleaning. The wound on the face looked clean enough, at least, but still painful. Painkilling would be...probably honey and the pepper seeds, boiled through a few times, then wrapped in plenty of clean cloth to keep it compressed.  

He takes a deep breath and, with his hands held up, enters the camp. He’s surrounded instantly. So he sits on the ground, hands still up, and smiles at them, as gentle as he can manage. 

One quirks its brow, and another ushers the injured one back to its resting point. Or tries to, anyway, because the injured bokoblin isn’t too happy about being manhandled. 

Link turns to the closest bokoblin and spreads out his wares, so to speak. Then he points at the injured one. 

That earns him a growl and a jab to the side. Link winces before shaking his head, hair flying around, and starting again. 

He gestures to the items, then to the pot. He hopes the finger wiggles express something good to bokoblins, because it’s the best he has without a common language. Back to the items, point to the one closest, this time, and then to the injured one. He smiles again. 

With a grunt, the bokoblin closest taps him on the head, before gathering the other ones together. There’s sounds he’s heard before, he’s sure- clicking and air going in even as sound goes out, sound that creeps up his spine and makes him shiver. His heart starts to pound again. This time, it’s not the waltz. 

There’s some sort of agreement, judging by the soft snort by the biggest bokoblin, who comes over and points to the cooking point. Link tries to smile again, but this time something has caught in his jaw, and he can’t make it natural. So he keeps his teeth away, just in case that’s a threat. Just in case. 

He sits by the pot and gets to work. Boil up water first, then pop the pepper seeds inside until there’s a scent in the air. Add honey, gradually, and spoon inside as needed. Boil wraps in the water, allow to cool, apply as a base with honey and then hold on with clean bandages. Easy. Sure, he burns himself a few too many times, and sure, his world feels a bit like it’s fallen five inches to the left, but it’s a successful recipe. He’s proud. 

He offers the wrap to the big bokoblin. It refuses and points to him (well, a spectacular burn on his hand) first. 

Sure, that’s fair- a test. Link drips his mixture on in little doses, taking short and sharp breaths before the full effect sets in and he sighs. It’s more for cuts and scabs, he thinks, but it’s a little more soothing than not. It seems good enough for the bokoblins, who pass it to their injured friend. 

There’s the initial recoil, but then the bokoblin grins. Success. 

“You.” One croaks out, the big one. “You?” 

Link blinks. The bokoblin rolls its eyes before pointing to itself. “Thaagan.” 

“Nura!” Says the one fussing over the injured bokoblin. 

“Mogun,” grumbles the final one. They all look at Link expectantly. 

He swallows. The Old Man was fine with just gestures, mostly. Words, words were one of those things that Link wasn’t sure if he knew or not. They catch in his throat like sap from a tree, stopping his breaths and brain all at once. The sensation that had been sneaking up his spine hit him all at once, a stranglehold on his neck, leaving him cold and shaking.

Tongue to the roof of the mouth, push air out the sides, then a vowel, nasal, stop. Just sounds. Nothing but sounds. But Link can’t get past that first breath, laterals crumbling. There’s a forest to hide in, where he won’t speak, where his heart will eventually stop pounding out a killer rhythm. 

But he’s frozen, world swimming, with nothing more than a half-finished ‘L’. 

Mogun and Nura share glances before coming close, and Thaagan’s raising their brow again. They chatter a bit before Mogun taps Link on the head and points to his throat, before shaking their head, and giving a tilt. 

Link nods. His hands are clammy. Thaagan shrugs before settling at the pot again, and twisting the mixture Link made in their hands. 

“Words,” says Thaagan, eventually, twisting the sounds on their tongue, “Your words. Hylian?”

Nod. The sun is climbing higher in the sky. He’s wasted time, and supplies-

“Fluent. Me.” The sounds seem strange between their teeth, like too much air comes out. “Listening. Speaking, less.” They huffed. “Words are overrated.” 

There’s a pause in the chatter. Nura snorts. “ _ Hard,  _ from you-”

Thaagan squawks and instantly sets to barking at Nura, who’s laughing and hopping out of the way from their blows. Mogun shakes their head. They gather up a few things and drop them into Link’s lap. 

Mogun nods at Link. He nods back, holding onto the meat and mushrooms as best he can, before breaking into a wobbling grin. Nura and Thaagan are still chasing each other, but they wave nonetheless. 

Link wanders back into the forest, cold and shaking, but feeling a little better. He still has a meal to make, after all, so worries can wait. 

 

Rhoam’s nose is sore, from crying and pressing his face into the desk, but it lights up soon enough because he smells something  _ delicious.  _ Smoky fire searing meat- fresh meat, alongside tender mushrooms and herbs, with crisp fish already smeared with some sort of jam. His stomach doesn’t rumble, anymore, but gods- the scent alone is enough to make his mouth water. It smells like company in the cold. 

And company he does have, company that’s peering over the pot and waving steam from his eyes. Link beams at him, waving, hair catching the light. Rhoam gives him a nod, padding over carefully. Crying always uses more energy than necessary. 

“So, you’ve got the hang of cooking, hmm? Poking around in my diary?” 

Link snorts, before the pot smokes and he turns his attention back to the meat. There’s two dishes out, and he’s just finished the meal, it seems. The meat goes onto the plate, with a side of some crushed herbs, it seems, and Link offers it to Rhoam with a smile. 

If he notices the tremble in Rhoam’s hands, he doesn’t say anything. 

“Hah! Thank you.” Rhoam settles onto the log, waiting for Link to join him. Without a shred of hesitation, Link starts to wolf it down. It’s a show in and of itself; how his eyes light up and his throat pushes the food away, tongue flicking out to catch any morsel that happened to miss. Thoughts of another blonde child come to mind, but that one is more impatient that delighted, always wanting to be back to her bits and bytes.

Rhoam pushes the thought away, and turns to his own plate. He cuts into the meat, then takes some of the fish skin to gather up the jam, and bites. 

Spicy, with just a hint of sweetness to cut through the salt in the meat and fish. It’s fresh, very fresh, to the point where the side feels like Rhoam pulled it from the ground himself. He cannot feel hunger anymore, nor does he thirst, but the meal...it makes him  _ want _ to feel them, just to feel the satisfaction of home-cooking sliding down his through; the tender meats and flaking fish; crispness crunching between his teeth. He wants, he so desperately  _ wants _ to share the meal, to pass along wine and beer, send compliments to the chef, but all he can do is let the flavour drench him for as long as possible, before it’s gone. 

Link is watching him with those eyes again, those vast eyes with heavy bags and the pleasure of a huge, wide world waiting for him. A selfish part of Rhoam wants to keep him in the plateau. 

He chokes. Link flinches and puts aside his meal to lean over him, face pushed into a frown. Rhoam laughs, though it’s more of a desperate, warbling sound. A dying bird. 

“Ha! I never thought I’d see the day, Link. You, giving up food for an old man…”

Link tilts his head and Rhoam laughs louder. The world doesn’t feel lighter at all, but he does- he feels like the chains tying him to the prison of the plateau are straining. Or maybe, they’re all that’s stopping him from being selfish. 

“If I’d have known you had a nose for food,” He says, finally, once the laughter’s gone, “I would have set you up in the kitchens.”

His eyes go wide as Rhoam feels the familiar coat of blue wrap around him. It’s going to be too late soon. Too late to be kind. Rhoam grits his teeth. 

“One more shrine, and the paraglider is yours. No trouble for a youth like you, hmm?” 

Link’s mouth drops open, like he might finally speak, but the wind blows leaves into his eyes. It’s awfully strong, and Rhoam lets it carry him far away. 

By the end of today, he expects to be gone. 

 

The Temple of Time is silent as ever, when Rhoam materialises before the weathered idols. His coat keeps flickering into his old robes, the ones that were bloodied and torn, rendered smooth by time. Smooth as the stone under the his fingers. 

How many people walked here? How many people were in this place the first time it was attacked? The second, the third, the final? 

It’s too quiet. The Temple was supposed to be a place for reflection, but all Rhoam can feel is judgement. Hylia’s statue has been beaten down by the wind and the rain, and moss may grow up it, but her gaze is ever sharp and harsh on Rhoam’s back. 

“Why,” he says, hoarse, “Why give us hope to take it away?” Rhoam grits his teeth together, forcing a hundred years of feeling back into his gut, “He’s- he’s still dying, isn’t he?”

Silence. 

“The shrine didn’t do anything but delay the inevitable, did it?”

Silence. Rhoam swallows, hard, brow creasing into a frown, before baring his teeth and shouting, “Why?!” 

The silence shatters.

“Why did you give the power to defeat Ganon to my daughter? Why not give it to the battle-hardened? Why not let my  _ wife _ live, let her use wisdom and grace to beat Ganon back into the earth? Why don’t  _ you _ come and take his life?!” 

He pants. The air is thick and heavy, like a storm rolling in from the sea, ready to swallow him whole. 

He ignores it. 

“What did we do wrong?” 

Hylia gazes down, cold and unmoved. 

“What did  _ I  _ do wrong..?” 

There’s no answer. There never is. There’s only the wind, the air, and the gentle patter of rain. 

And a faint smell of food. Something sweet, this time. 

Rhoam turns around, eyes still red, and sees Link. He looks a little worse for wear, honestly- fingers and toes red, squinting like he’s been hit by pollen, and at least a couple of stings on his arms. 

“Ah...you completed the shrines?” 

Link ignores him. He jogs forwards and holds out a dish- the sweet thing, Rhoam thinks. A hint of spice in the air, but there’s apples and nuts all drizzled with honey inside, and they’re warm. Link’s beaming at him, and offers it out. 

“For...the goddess?”

A shake of the head. 

“...You made this for me?” 

More vigorous pushing. The dish is warm under Rhoam’s fingers. It’s tiny fingers and a face squishing as he taps her tiny nose, smiling soft and warm when his daughter grabs his hand and refuses to let go. 

He’s sure he’s had this before, smelt it before. 

“But…” 

Link holds up a hand and shakes his head, before gesturing to the bowl. His brow is wrinkling, a bit. Worry.

“You don’t need to concern yourself with me, boy. I don’t- I don’t deserve this. Give it to the goddess. Or- keep it for yourself. You have something long and arduous ahead of you…” 

Link’s face falls flat. Then he turns on heel to speak to the goddess. Hands on his hips, mouth quirked up to one side, the very picture of blasphemy. His fingers are still quaking, face pale, but every inch of him still looks ready to start a fight with the colossus before him. 

Outside, thunder rumbles. The rain’s coming down heavy, lightning reflecting from the puddles it creates. A battleground. 

Hylia has never spoken to him, in all the years he’s been stuck on these plains. He stopped coming to her temple after less than a year, and in the time she became as weathered as he felt. They’re too old. 

Lightning strikes the bowl. The shards pass right through Rhoam, but Link, poor Link, they draw a sharp hiss from him. He scrambles up, eyes wide, but there’s no need.

Link hits the statue with the torch he’d stolen from Rhoam less than a week before. He throws a very rude gesture her way, before limping over to help Rhoam. 

Of course, he still doesn’t know, does he? He doesn’t know anything about Rhoam and what he’s done. He doesn’t know about the goddess. 

“Wait, Link- please, you’ve done well to take all the shrines. Let’s...let’s take this out of her Grace’s sight.” A pause. “Please.”

Link shrugs. Rhoam pushes himself up to full height, surrounded by that glow once more. For the final time. 

It’s a dramatic exit to the top of the temple, with the wind and the lightning, but it gives him a minute to catch his breath. He needs to focus. 

But there’s still sweet honey on his fingers, and he can hear  _ over _ the wind. He hears it clear as day- a tuning fork hit loud on a windy winter day, where the frost hasn’t shattered yet, and a laugh like a squawking bird.

Link arrives in a flurry of feathers, mouth half-way through what looks to be a rude word. Rhoam laughs. 

“Link. You still don’t remember anything, do you?” 

He shrugs.

“I thought it unwise to overwhelm you. I apologise for lying. Please...listen to my story. Hyrule’s story.” 

 

The tale unwinds. The champions and their failure, Rhoam’s death, the fate of his beloved Zelda and Link himself- brought back from the dead in a desperate attempt to save Hyrule’s hope. Rhoam chokes, more than once, but he presses through. It’s clearly hard.

But Link feels nothing. There’s no bitter spark of pain in his mind. He doesn’t know anything about these people. 

Rhoam’s face is as downcast as the weather when he tells Link to destroy the Calamity Ganon and save Zelda. 

“Here, the paraglider, as promised. Thank you for going along with an old man’s whims, lad.” He smiles. “I suggest...you head to Kakariko village. Impa may be able to tell you more about your current state. Just...be careful. You seem unsteady.” 

Probably not normal, then. Link nods, anyway. 

“Goodbye, Link. Stay safe.” 

And like that, with nothing but a whisper of the wind, Rhoam is gone. Rhoam Bhosphoramus Hyrule, King of a dead country, free from the world. 

Link stares out into the world, for a moment. It’s so open- rolling fields and deep, dark forests, with worn out ruins dotting the hills. Wild. 

He looks to the castle. Calamity Ganon’s malice hovers around it, like low fog rolling off a lake. He can hear it howling. 

Really, he should leave the plateau. If Rhoam says that he’s a great hero, then he doesn’t see why he’d lie. Doesn’t see why he would hang around for so long, in a place with only bokoblins and wood pigeons and shrines he couldn’t access. Nothing but a silent goddess for company. 

So there’s no reason he shouldn’t leave. 

But Rhoam was clearly upset about something.

And the three bokoblins had been understanding. 

And instead of a memory, he had a world to fill in- a world, wonderful and wild. 

Link breathes the cool morning air, and flies.

There is still  _ something _ here. 

  
  
  
  
  
  



End file.
